


Stung (You've Got a Hold on Me)

by minglingcrab



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF
Genre: (Attempted) Polyamory, Angst, Future Fic, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minglingcrab/pseuds/minglingcrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate reality of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/45483">I Get to Kiss You, Baby</a> 'verse--actually an early discarded and now muchly revised draft--in which Adam slept with Kris and Katy the night Katy wanted him to. Remember that he had reasons not to?  This is set a few months down the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stung (You've Got a Hold on Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Get to Kiss You, Baby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/45483) by [minglingcrab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minglingcrab/pseuds/minglingcrab). 



> Contains rough sex (biting, hair pulling, kitchen implements being used in ways that their makers never intended), failed polyamory, and implied infidelity.
> 
> Title from [The Count of Monte Cristo](http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid65536226001?bclid=65573852001&bctid=22178151001) by the [Noisettes](http://www.noisettes.co.uk)
> 
> **Beta:**Cynnet

In the beginning, they'd all been careful; deferential.

Like some fucking elaborate farce, with not one of them aware of how they were already setting themselves up to be utterly screwed.  

_It's fine, I was just surprised, we'll figure it out_, Katy insisted when she came home early one day and found them making out on the couch; Adam had let it go because of course it would be hard for her to see Kris with someone else.

Kris hadn't said a word.

They'd had no fucking clue what they were doing, although Adam had figured out fairly quickly what they were doing wrong.  Useless _fucking _knowledge. Still useless today, when he knows exactly what it means that Kris is pulling into his driveway, getting out of the car, and checking his distance from the curb like it matters more than the stretch to the front door where Adam is leaning sideways against the frame.

"Does Katy know you're here?"

"No," Kris says, and ducks his face as he takes off his sunglasses.

"Call her," Adam says.  "You can keep her on speaker.  Does that still not count as cheating?"

"How the hell should I know?" Kris' chin snaps up; his hands slide into his pockets.  "You guys were the ones who made all the rules."

"Bitch."  Adam says it calmly.  The last time they'd had this fight, it had ended with him asking Kris: Do you feel guilty when you fuck Katy, too? Or is that something special you save for the two of us?

Kris gnaws his lower lip.  

They'd never had rules, no matter what Kris says, but if Adam had been asked for one he would have said that he will not fucking ask anyone's permission to touch his goddamn boyfriend.  He knows Kris' lips—elastic, pliant, warm with the taste of candy or onions; he knows his arms, and the stretch of his neck, and the curl of his toes.  He knows Kris, biblically and personally, and he knows enough to hate the mobile undecided helpless lines of his face now.

He feels the resistant scrape of the door against Kris' ankle, moving in an arc opposite his as Adam pulls him inside and kicks it shut, bangs it shut from between his legs.  Adam stays too close, looming on purpose or so that Kris has nowhere else to look or because skin craves skin and breathing the same air is a compulsion.

He watches Kris' face twist with the usual naked want and self-loathing, his standard visceral reaction to Adam, and when Kris opens his mouth as if the feelings have settled into patterns that can now be signified with words like _don't know why I'm here _and _should go_, he pulls Kris up by his collar and kisses him.  Gently, a sweet hello after months (three) apart, a pressure whose mildness is too surprising for Kris to resist.  Kissing Kris is easy because Kris wants to be kissed, opens to it like it's air or sunlight, and keeping him from thinking is as simple as not letting go.  Adam is careful now because he _knows _what he's doing, even if what he's doing is being a colossal idiot, so he keeps Kris' mouth sealed with his, sucks Kris' lips slowly, runs gentle hands down Kris' back, and just keeps at it, kissing and kissing until Kris is gasping into his mouth but not pulling away, because Kris has forgotten to breathe.

At which point Adam viciously bites him.

His lip splits; Adam laps awkwardly at the blood as he pushes Kris towards the living room, cold metallic tang in his mouth, but they only make it two steps into the kitchen before Kris jerks free.

"I didn't—"

"Come here for this?"  Adam leverages him against the wall with a thigh between his legs; Kris is half-hard and hot through his jeans.  Adam exerts more pressure, bringing it up all the way from his knees and hips this time, cataloging Kris' expression for future use.  "Sorry, try again."

Kris swallows, struggling to gain control of himself and hold still against Adam's thigh.  He isn't as good at defusing confrontation as he is at avoiding it, and it's almost sad how out of his element he is right now.  Adam doesn't bother to be subtle about going for his fly.

A hand is in his hair, though, jerking his head back before he can get there, sharp shock of pain that makes his eyes water.  Kris is pushing him down with one hand, yanking his head back with the other; his total surface area may be relatively small, but Kris isn't exactly breakable, and he's angry right now, shoving at Adam once, twice, making him lose his balance and fall back on his ass.

"Fuck you," Kris says.  His voice is rough, thick, jagged like his nails on Adam's skin as he pushes Adam's shirt up, furious and clumsy.  "_Fuck _you."

Adam tastes blood again.  There's blood in his mouth from where he's biting his cheek and a smear of blood on Kris' chin.  Kris stares at him, puffing air through his nose, chest heaving, and then pushes Adam the rest of the way down, follows him down and bends his head and bites where Adam's nipple is alreadystretched tightand sensitive as hell.  Tongues ittoolightly, merciless.  His palms are a flat and hard and frankly painful pressure on Adam's chest.

Adam gets his hand between Kris' legs and squeezes, and Kris lifts off with a strangled sound.  "You came here," Adam says.  "You mad that I let you in?" He yanks Kris' shirt off one-handed and Kris doesn't resist—arches into Adam's hand with his eyes squeezed shut as Adam flings the shirt away.   His jeans are even easier, Adam rolling him over and pulling them down so that he doesn't even have to lift his hips to help.  He's under Adam now, shuddering, eyes shut tight because he can get in his car and brake for redlightsbut he can't fucking_look_ when his pants are halfway down his thighs, cock darkening and swelling in the open air, untouched.

The nearest cabinetisa drawer full of flatware.  Adamsits for a minute, lookinginside,and then pulls out the big, long-handled knife and grabs the soap from under the sinkwith shaking hands. NowKris is wide-eyed and panting.  Adam shoves them at him.

"Work yourself open," he says.  "I'm going to get—I'm going to—"

Kris' eyes flicker to his bag.

"Adam—"

"Do it," Adam says.  "Put it in you.  Put it—"

Kris' breathing is harsh.  His fingers curl around the handle, near the top, and the soap splatters on the floor, gummy greasy inkblot shapes, and Kris makes a mess of his shoes and jeans when he takes them off so that he can spread his legs apart.  The muscles in his thighs tremble but his hand is steady, working the wide handle inside him, his legs extended clear of the blade.  He's stretching himself with his fingers for it, soap-slick,thighssprawled open; he's fucking himself on it, staring down at the long steel edge moving between his legs, mouth open and marked red.

Adam is hitwitha single memory of Kris bright-eyed in bed, snort-laughing and climbing on top of him in a pile of pillows.  He doesn't know when it's from.  Theveryfirst night, Adam had sat with Katy curled around his feet and looked over the few bruises he'd collected—marks that were under his skin but would fadeto yellowsoonand then spiral away to nothing at all.

Kris stares down between his own legs as his arms work rigidly, tendons standing out in his neck like they've been carved.  Slowly, his head falls back, filthy and gorgeous.

Adam raises himself up on his knees and goes for Kris' bag instead of the stairs, flipping it open and ignoring Kris' sharp intake of breath; tightens his jaw and stares down into the bag for one very long minute and then fumbles for the condoms and lube, right near the top, and rolls one on.  He turns back to Kris, who is gulping air, brow tight.  Adam kneels between his legs.

"Stop," he says, and Kris does.  Adam eases the knife out.  Kris is red and wet and open.  He shivers when Adam runs a finger under his balls.

"Adam—"

"Shut up," Adam says, and pushes inside.  Kris is tight, perfect, flushed and hot everywhere.  His heavy breathing, getting heavier, sounds loudly in the room as he thrusts back against Adam.  Adam steadies himself.  Kris is shifting around him and making the same noises that have been able to wipe Adam's mind clean with heat since the very first time he heard Kris trying to keep them inside—on a bus, early in the morning and far too late at night, on the phone with a girl who wouldn't stop telling him what Adam would do to him if he could. Adam's hips snap forward and he pounds into Kris, once and twice and three times and more until he loses count.  There are many, many things he'd do to Kris if he could.  He runs through them in his mind until Kris makes a sound, loudly, a word Adam can't make out, and tightens and shudders violentlyaround him and comes gripping Adam's hair.

Adam pulls out, peels off the condom and straddles Kris' chest.  "Come on," he says, and Kris prises his eyes open, stares glassily at Adam and then tongues at the slit, obliging, his jaw slack and loose.  He blinks slowly a couple times, coming around so that they're both paying attention when Adam starts to stroke himself short and tight while Kriscranes his neck to catch andsuck him, raw wet heat at the head of his cock.  Adamnoticesthe scuff marks Kris’ shoes have left on the floor near the wall;how badly Kris needs a shave;how the slick press of his tongue isdrawing Adam closer every second.  HelooksdownatKris watching him, watching his hands rough on his dick, in between more slow blinks like a metronome keeping time with his mouth.  Kris sucks and closes his eyes and reaches up a hand to his cheek, tracing the shape of Adam's cock with his thumb, and Adam comes in streaks across Kris' neck and chest.

He holds himself up on his arms and then lets himself slip to the floor, rolls onto his back, and listens to Kris' breathing slow and return to normal beside him.

Hecounts the other sounds he can hear.  The refrigerator, and the white noise in his head, and possibly some cars, and the pulse in his throat.

"I'm going to shower," Kris mumbles.  He gets to his feet, gingerly.  

That time on the couch (You look good here, Kris said.  Yeah? Adam said.  Yeah, Kris said, and kissed him hard.) hadn't been the first time they'd done something without Katy there. Adam assumes that Katy had no compunctions against kissing her husband when Adam wasn't around, either.  It was Kris and Katyalonewho went to therapy, though.

The last fight had actually ended with Kris pleading, low, _I don't want you to hate me_, and Adam pushing him down onto his face and fucking him slowly, relentlessly, feeling Kris close hot around him as many times as he could stand it, hitting the right spot to make Kris scream, coming buried inside Kris with Kris' ear between his teeth—and then, when it was over, telling Kris to go home to his wife, please.

Adam sits up and opens Kris' bag again.  At the top, above the remaining condoms, are divorce papers, signed.  He flips through them.  Initials mark the corner of every page, blue ink on the first few and then black, like the pen had run out in the middle, or like they'd been started and finished in different places and times.

Upstairs, Kris turns on the shower; the sound of the water is audible—pounding on the tiles.  Adam sets the papers down on the table and goes to join him.


End file.
